


Wait

by vargrimar



Series: A Night on the Town [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A straggler follows Jamison back to the Flagon and he is Not Happy, Alternate Universe - Bloodborne, Blood Drinking, F/M, Or allusions to it anyhow, Sexual Tension, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: It is then, staring at the contraption issuing from beyond the handle’s inner guard, that Jamison realizes this isn’t just the weapon of a Vileblood.No, he thinks. No, it is far too complex. Not with that trigger. Not with that firing mechanism. He recognizes that design, and it isn’t simple nobility.This is the weapon of a Cainhurst Knight.





	Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another installment of The Night on the Town. The original incarnation of this fic was written over a year ago and had Lacroix as a Hunter. With the development of the Bloodborne AU evolving so much since its initial inception, that has been changed -- she is now a Vileblood noble, who has taken the attire and weaponry of a Cainhurst Knight. This whole thing has been rewritten to match.
> 
> The direct inspiration for this -  
> [Jamison & Satya](http://nervmaid.tumblr.com/post/151777836049/dont-ask-but-u-can-blame-vargrimar-and)

Fury courses through Jamison’s veins, and it takes far more self-control than he cares to employ just to keep himself from tearing across the room.

He had caught the lingering presence of another Vileblood while in the Forbidden Woods (because the blood sings, it always sings; he can smell and breathe and suck it in and let it drown him), but he never thought she would dare to follow. He never thought she would track him back to Yharnam, stalk him through the cobbled streets, and take it upon herself to tail his shadow’s steps through the Cathedral Ward all the way to the sanctuary of The Black Flagon. He never thought she would trail him up the stairs, break open the lock, and burst into his room, and he certainly never thought she would threaten the life of the woman cradled against him.

The bursting he can deal with. It isn’t the first time someone has flattened a door to see him and it won’t be the last, although he will admit that previous happenings were either a particularly ornery Powder Keg in search of his hook or a viciously cross Hunter Captain with a stick up his arse. Bursting tends to be commonplace in the Oto Workshop, anyhow, and bursting in and of itself is something he is quite fond of—nothing like a little spark.

But it isn’t the bursting part that’s the problem. It’s the threatening part he doesn’t like.

“Well, isn’t this a compromising position?” The Vileblood’s mouth is painted ruby, pinched in a delicate smirk. Her dark hair has been drawn into a tight tail. “I must admit, I didn’t think you had found someone to sustain you quite so quickly. When a little bird told me you were in Yharnam, I thought they killed you. Imagine my surprise to find you at a Hunter’s neck.”

Jamison’s left hand tightens protectively over the bare expanse of Satya’s back. His prosthetic hand tugs her cloak against her to shield her from her pursuer’s gaze, and he can feel her tuck closer; she clenches at the sleeve of his coat, the pressure stark and cinching. The mark at the left side of his throat aches with the phantom pang of her fangs, but he sets it aside and wrangles his focus onto more important things: namely, the very unwanted intrusion who had decided knocking was apparently a thing of the past.

“Right, okay, I’ll bite,” he says. “Who the hell are you and why’d you just break down the bloody door?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” The Vileblood does not even afford him a passing glance. “You know, if you were going to use him like this, you could have at least taught him manners. Hunters are so very… base.”

“I am _not_ ,” he says, but the hard squeeze on his bicep cautions him against further argument.

The woman breathes a curt sigh. She adjusts her stance in the center of the room, twisting on the sharp heels of her boots, and with a disarmingly casual air, she lifts aside the left fold of her black-red coat to reveal the elegant grip of a rapier. If its presence is meant to make a statement, she doesn’t seem to care; she unsheathes it in one deft arc and brandishes the edge toward him with purpose.

It is then, staring at the contraption issuing from beyond the handle’s inner guard, that Jamison realizes this isn’t just the weapon of a Vileblood.

No, he thinks. No, it is far too complex. Not with that trigger. Not with that firing mechanism. He recognizes that design, and it isn’t simple nobility.

This is the weapon of a Cainhurst Knight.

The howling through his body escalates. Every fiber of him clamors to rush forward and gut her with the quicksilver drenched siderite in his right hand—she’s dangerous, she’s a threat, she means Satya harm—but he wells it down, sets his jaw, and settles for a withering glare because Cainhurst is not his territory, not his expertise; he does not want to do something Satya wouldn’t sanction. The bite on his neck continues to throb, gentle and soft and in time with his pulse, and he wishes he were in a better position than sitting at the end of a bloody bed.

He should have been more careful, he thinks, teeth bared in a silent snarl. He isn’t entirely thoughtless on a Hunt, but to let a Knight follow him back? Just what kind of bodyguard is he, anyway?

“Come now, Vaswani. Surely it hasn’t been that long. A few months, at the most. You must still have your faculties. This brute’s blood hasn’t made you drunk, has it?” The Vileblood gives the blade an indicative flick in his direction, and he isn’t sure whether he should be flattered or offended.

“Three months, Amélie Lacroix.” Satya cranes her neck to glance over her shoulder. “Your presence is unwanted.”

“Ah, and yet yours is very desired. The other houses would be very curious to know what you have been doing since you decided to abscond from Cainhurst without a word.”

“That is none of their business,” says Satya, “nor is it any of yours.”

“Is that so? I think they would beg to differ.”

“Then let them beg. I will not return with you or any other Knight.”

Lacroix’s self-satisfied smile reappears. “Not even with Ser Korpal? I should think he would be far more interested in your whereabouts than any of the others.”

“Not even with Ser Korpal.” Her fingers dig into the fabric of Jamison’s coat, and he tightens his grip around her in reply. “Especially not with Ser Korpal.”

“He will be devastated to hear that,” says Lacroix.

“ _Good_.” Satya seethes it with such venom—he doesn’t even know who this Ser Korpal _is_. “Cainhurst may relish in orchestrating relations between houses, but I refuse to be a part of it. Denying personal agency over a house is unjust.”

“Perhaps it is.” Lacroix brushes a stray chip of wood off the lapel of her coat. “Still, you seemed quite content to live in splendor for the majority of your life. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“The Vileblood has made you _mad_.”

“The Vileblood is cause for many things, least of all madness.” Lacroix narrows her gaze, the gold of her eyes a stark color against the drab décor of the room. “You truly don’t want to return? You want to stay here? Of your own volition? You do realize the danger that implies?”

Satya nods in his arms, her naked body flush with his. “I am well aware. I didn’t simply stumble into Yharnam on accident.”

“And yet you want to stay,” says Lacroix, an eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You want to stay in a city that will kill you for what you are. You accuse me of madness, but I think you are the mad one here. Wouldn’t it be easier just to leave this barbaric place and return to where you won’t be slaughtered on sight?”

“Cainhurst will do something far worse than slaughter,” says Satya.

“But it doesn’t have to be that way. Gérard is very powerful, and he could see to it that Her Highness does not know about this little altercation. You agreed to come quietly and you didn’t insult Ser Korpal. You even killed a Hunter in the process. The punishment wouldn’t be so severe.”

“I would prefer no punishment at all.”

Lacroix takes one step forward, blade poised in threat. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

Jamison cannot stopper the predatory noise as it grinds at the back of his mouth. “I’d stop right there if I was you.”

“Ugh. No manners at all. Out of all the Hunters in Yharnam, you chose this reprobate?” She _tsk_ s disapprovingly. “Do control your thrall.”

“Thrall?” he echoes, bewildered. “I’m not a—”

“You are in her service and you provide her blood,” she says. “You are a thrall.”

He hasn’t the faintest idea why those two things should make him a mindless servant, but he isn’t about to argue semantics. “Right, right, whatever. Fine, thrall. Come one step closer and this thrall’s gonna—”

Satya places a finger over his lips to cut him short.

Brow knit, he glances down in question (because he is certainly ready to fight, words or otherwise), but she shakes her head as if to somehow say, _Do not get involved_. Her tongue darts out to tend to the remaining sanguine smudged by her mouth, warm and wet and red, and then Satya slinks out from between his arms.

A shiver crawls down his backbone at the sight.

Naked and gleaming under the light of the hot oil lamp upon the bedside table, she twists about and approaches Lacroix with confident steps. The curves of her hips sway as she moves, her thick thighs and sleek legs taut with lean muscle. Her skin seems to glow beneath the lamp’s flame, and it sends his heartbeat thumping against the undersides of his ribs. Even the spun ink of her hair has a gorgeous sheen.

“It would behoove you to leave.” The blood gem earthed in the center of her left palm glistens as she flexes her fingers.

Lacroix does not seem fazed. “It would behoove you to come with me.”

“That won’t happen,” says Satya. “I mean to stay in Yharnam, and I will do it by any means necessary. Besides, my dear Hunter was so kind as to invite me here. I wouldn’t want to be rude and decline his generous invitation.”

Jamison frowns as he lets her cloak pool to the floor. “Wait. What? Right, wait, okay, hold up. I never—”

“You did,” says Satya, glancing to him over the curve of her shoulder. “I explicitly remember you inviting me. I never would have come otherwise.”

Had he? Is that how it happened? Jamison struggles to recall. The first night she’d stayed with him in Yharnam, he remembers her licking the bloodied pad of his fingerprint, and then her fangs nipping at his lower lip with a delicate softness and the warmth of her tongue in his mouth. He also remembers squirming against her as she nudged her thigh against the front of his trousers as she accused him of _passion_ of all things, which then promptly devolved into a lot of kissing and rutting and sighing her name. Nowhere does he remember opening his mouth for anything remotely resembling an invitation.

He does remember a request or two—

_Stop teasing—_

_Fuck me—_

**_Jamison_ ** _—_

_Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop—_

But not from him.

“Leave,” says Satya, and gestures toward the open doorway with a flippant wave of her hand. “And tell the others, if you must. I will not be cowed by Cainhurst any longer.”

“A shame. That is very unfortunate.” Lacroix flicks her wrist, and the rapier’s blade shifts inward with a sharp _snap_ , crunching in at the inner guard, revealing the open mouth of the reiterpallasch’s barrel. “I will not take pleasure in doing this. I do so dislike hunting one of our own.”

Adrenaline surges through him in a dizzying sluice as he watches her posture shift, her mouth curve, her finger move. The trigger is centimeters away and she is aiming right at Satya and the beast in him wells up in a frenzy because no one is allowed to hurt her, no one, he won’t stand for it, he won’t, she’s _his_ —

A splintering crack fissures through Jamison’s eardrums, the thrum of it pressing through the slats of his ribs.

But when he opens his eyes, Satya remains gloriously unharmed. Her posture is straight, rigid, the muscles of her back and shoulders tight with strain. She holds her prosthetic arm out before her, palm open and fingers splayed. The lingering sanguine film of a shield disperses in the space in front of her, and the gnarled quicksilver round drops to the floor with a harmless clatter.

Lacroix’s countenance is shaped with shock.

“A shame,” says Satya, and he thinks he can detect a generous hint of satisfaction there. “House Vishkar may have taught me combat, but Yharnam has taught me bloodwork. I am not the person I was three months ago. The Old Blood is not without its terrors.”

“That was from your gem,” says Lacroix, her attention fixated upon the knot of red in Satya’s hand. “I know of your conjured blades, but there is more? Who taught you?”

Satya steps forward, flexing her mechanical fingers back and forth in a waltzing kind of rhythm. The golden ornaments in her hair catch the cosmos in the lamplight. Her every muscle grows taut and relaxes with each movement—the plane of her back, the cords in her legs, the subtle swell in her right arm. The jewel earthed within her inner palm shimmers, glinting with raw power channeled from the blood in her body, and it begins to surge with a hot, coalescing light.

“Leave. There is nothing left for you here. You can’t kill me, and Yharnam is far beyond Her Highness’s reach. You and I both know the Executioners will happily find an excuse to raid Castle Cainhurst should a Vileblood be found within Yharnam’s walls.” Drawing a sanguine blade out from between her fingers, she brandishes it and presses the sharp edge against the Vileblood’s throat, well past the threat of the reiterpallasch. “And the Vileblood need not be alive.”

Jamison bites at his lip, equal parts aroused and epinephrine sick. His blood is crowing for a fight, rash and violent and forever coursing, but to see her be so tempered and in control, to see her exhibit such refined _power_ , it seems to be congregating… elsewhere.

He shifts his good leg over his metal knee, ignoring the tightness in his trousers. He has to route his focus onto the situation at hand; she might need him to intervene, and he must be ready should she loose him to drill a hand right through her pursuer’s viscera. Unfortunately for him, with said situation being very naked and poised so he gets the perfect view of her ass, it is more difficult than he would like to admit.

“So, do we have an agreement?” asks Satya, drawing a thin thread of red. “Or do I need to make a further point?”

Lacroix releases a shaky exhale. Peering past Satya, she locks stares with Jamison and provides him with a piercing glower. “You are not a very good Hunter,” she says. “Despicable. What sort of Hunter lets themselves fall victim to one of us?”

“I dunno,” he says. “She kind of—grew on me, y’know? Not like it was on purpose or anything. I didn’t exactly have a night out in the forest thinking I’d make nice with one of your lot. Our first little meeting was proper. Fighting the good fight and got nice and bloody doing it, but…” He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Things weren’t really agreeing there towards the end. Caught some extra company, and it’s hard to whack something when you got some other slobbering beastie after you. Decided I’d rather die to her than it.”

“You should have no fear of death,” says Lacroix. “You would return to the Dream, wouldn’t you? That is where dead Hunters go.”

Jamison scratches behind his ear. “Right, yeah, sure, but that don’t mean I gotta like it. You can’t tell me you’re keen on having some mongrel get a fang in your neck, have you bleeding out all over the road, then waking up in a misty garden with flowers up your nose. I know I’m not.”

“That isn’t the point,” she seethes.

But Satya presses the blade deeper. “You have overstayed your welcome, Amélie. Take your pride and leave. Quickly. If it is fast enough, perhaps I won’t have the Executioners follow you like you followed my Hunter.”

A moment or two passes where Lacroix stands there, glaring, a saturnine smile at the side of her mouth. The shadows lining her jaw, her neck, and the hollows of her eyes seem to sway in the xanthous light of the oil lamp. She grips the reiterpallasch tightly in one hand, as if still considering the consequences of firing yet another shot.

“You have done well for yourself, Satya,” she says, her voice an unusual amalgam of approbation and scorn. “You have this fool and the rest of Yharnam under your thumb. Her Highness would be most proud. Don’t worry, I will leave, but don’t be so naïve as to think that will stop Ser Korpal from following in my footsteps.”

A line of tension sets in Satya’s jaw. “Sanjay does not frighten me.”

“He should,” says Lacroix.

And with a noisy huff, she wrenches away, but not before firing the reiterpallasch one final time at the bedroom wall. It splits right past Jamison’s head—he flinches, reflexes frayed—and embeds amongst the stone, issuing a bone-splitting _crack_ somewhere beyond the back of his skull. Pleased with her work, Lacroix then storms out over the splinters of the broken door with the ends of her coat fluttering behind her, the punctuated _click_ of her boots disappearing down the stairs, out of the Flagon, and into the early morning mists.

Jamison sits there in silence for a long minute. He glances behind him to see a quicksilver puncture lodged between the stacked stone composing the wall. If he had been sitting slightly to the right, it would have driven right through his forehead, and it would have been off to the Dream for him.

“That was… interesting.” Satya twists her wrist, and the bloodblade evaporates into a thin mist of red. She then peers over at the state of the room’s threshold and its once-attached door, clicking her tongue against her teeth in disapproval. “Tell me, Mister Fawkes, are you always so careless when hunting on your own? It is hard to believe you survived at all before we met.”

“Oi, don’t blame me,” he protests. “I didn’t know she was following!”

“I don’t believe that at all. You have proven you are far more observant than you look.”

“Cheers,” he deadpans. “I’ll have you know I _did_ smell her, but that was out in the forest. There’s heaps of beasts out there. Could’ve been any of ‘em. How was I supposed to know she’d come after me?”

Satya turns to him with a pivot of her foot. Midnight wisps of hair dangle from her temple, the rest coiled and pinned with aurum in an expert bun. There is a little curve to her posture, a slight rolling arch up her thigh, her back, her shoulder, and it draws his gaze with heated interest. The fullness of her breasts gleams beneath the light of the burning oil, the dark peaks of her nipples beyond tempting.

“Clearly I shouldn’t leave you unaccompanied,” she says.

Jamison finds that his mouth has become particularly dry. “Right. Yeah. Clearly.”

She draws up to him with slow steps. The hard muscle of her abdomen claws a pang of want through his bones, and he finds his gaze lowering to the thatch of hair between her legs. Teeth sinking into his lower lip, the aching stiffness in his trousers is becoming more and more difficult to ignore, and she seems to take notice.

“The door is ruined,” she says, adjusting the lapel of his coat. Her other hand brushes a pattern down his back, slowing down into a gentle knead as she coaxes his leg down with a nudge of her hip and positions herself between his knees. “I think it would be best if we were to ask the proprietor for another room.”

“Yeah?” Jamison settles a gloved hand in the small of her back. Her presence is unbearably close, and although layers of clothing part them, it is as if he can feel the heat of her body searing straight through it all. “Probably be a good idea. Reckon they wouldn’t be too happy about the door. Or some Knight bashing it down. How d’you think she knew to follow me, anyway? I thought you—”

Satya presses a kiss to his mouth. Metal lingers on the edges of her lips, but he breathes her up and licks it in and revels in the warmth of her. She brings her leg against his straining erection and begins to give a slow rhythm in varying pressures, and he finds himself moaning into her mouth. All of him craves, screams, _howls_ for closer contact, especially in the aftermath of an encounter he was not allowed to get involved in, and he needs a way to spend coils of pent up adrenaline.

Her good hand trails down the breast of his coat to settle between his legs. She cups him through the material of his trousers, soft and squeezing, and he can’t help but rock his hips into her touch. He doesn’t know why she’s doing this or why she feels so bloody good, but he’s not about to question it.

“Jamison,” she breathes, tongue tracing at his lip.

“Satya,” he replies, husky and hoarse and far too deep.

“Go get us another room.”

With a loving pat against his cock, she gives his cheek a brief kiss before sitting down on the bed beside him.

Jamison stares down at the floor and cradles his head in his hands, flustered and breathless.

“In a minute,” he manages. “I’ll… I’ll go in a minute. Just—just need a breather.”

“I know,” she says, and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll wait.”


End file.
